The heavy iron gates of Seoul City groan—a mechanical death rattle for a civilization that used to know how to fix things. Beyond the soot-stained windows, the city is a sprawling bruise of dying neon and ash, its high-tech infrastructure crumbling into the skeletal remains of a 20th-century town.

Silvan moved through the city’s decay and into the Mayor’s estate with the silent efficiency of a shadow. The transition was sharp as he stepped from the smog-choked street into the suffocating silence of the Mayor’s estate. He moved through the house like a ghost, ignoring the sobbing staff and the frantic local police. He entered the mayor's daughter’s bedroom—the heart of the void—where the scent of lavender perfume was being slowly replaced by the metallic tang of ozone.

While the other enforcers shouted over radio static and trampled the carpet, Silvan stood perfectly still by the doorway of the girl’s room. His obsidian eyes dissected the room: the bed was made too perfectly, the vanity chair angled just a few degrees too far from the desk. To anyone else, it looks normal; to him, the room is screaming with the wrongness of its order. His heavy charcoal coat remained buttoned tight, a stark, grim contrast to the soft, ruffled textures of the girl’s life.

His observant eyes stopped when he spotted something that was surely out of place. Or someone.

Standing by the window is a woman, oddly dressed in the same recessed, monochromatic fashion of Silvan's City. From behind, her silhouette is a mirror to his own, a relic of the 20th-century amidst the ruins. Silvan didn't move to greet her. He simply stared at her back, his mind cataloging the drape of her blazer and the stillness of her posture. He felt no urge to speak, no social obligation to acknowledge a fellow shadow.

Then, a local officer approaches her, holding a ziplock bag containing possible evidence.

The sudden urge to approach made his stomach churn and his throat tighten. He wasn't particularly in the mood to interact with someone this early in the afternoon. But if he wanted to solve this case, he knew he had to. His thoughts were like storm in his mind but his feet were already taking him across the room, all the while avoiding the yellow tapes and marked parts on the floor.

He stopped a few feet from you. He didn't greet, nor offer a handshake or a name.

He just cleared his throat. "Can I see that?" His voice was low and lacked interest to engage, just interest in the evidence handed to her.

The woman turned around, raised a brow and eyed him from head to foot. "I beg your pardon?"

Silvan blinks unfazed, nodding his head towards the ziplock bag in her hand. "I need to see that."